Because there you are living, with your smile screaming in my face. While your body rests under grass today.
I believe not all of you is left under the dirt.
That somewhere, angels are teaching you how to move.
Why are photographs so loud but my room is so silent?
What does capturing a moment take from us?
A glint in our eyes?
A strand of hair?
Because I can’t smell you, but I can see your perfumed wrists.
If parts of us are frozen in a moment,
why doesn't it fully take over my vision
when I try to remember why we were swimming?
If I had never taken pictures, I may not have believed we lived.
If I stare at pictures too long, they become folklore, and I may not have believed we lived.
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